


Abyss

by cassie_e



Category: Firefly, Serenity
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-05
Updated: 2011-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-26 23:09:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/288915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassie_e/pseuds/cassie_e
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'It was her land and no gorram purplebelly was taking it from her.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Abyss

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Firefly is not mine, property of Fox, 20th Century, and Joss Whedon etc.
> 
> The story is mine, though. So there.
> 
> I'm not quite sure where this story/vignette originated. But I found myself thinking about Mal's mother and what kind of person she was. And then this theory on how Mal knows about Reavers and what they can do. And how supposedly the Reavers came aboard the ship in Bushwhacked, yet there was no sign of a struggle. Makes a person ponder. I don't remember from which culture/country that burned/raze the land, (I think it was Russia in WWII) so the enemy couldn't reap from it. And going by the timeline to get an 'idea' http/ dot html, I'm setting U-day around late May.
> 
> To Jebbypal: You rock. Like pop rocks and hot tamales: grin:

**  
**

__

_And you shall hear of wars and rumors of wars: see that you are not troubled:_

 _For all these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet._

 _For a nation shall rise against nation, and the kingdom against kingdom: and there shall be famines, and pestilences, and earthquakes…all in diverse places. But they shall endure unto the end shall be saved._

 _-Matthew, 24:6—13_

* * *

Early May 2511, Shadow

The figure surveyed the landing Alliance scum from a distance. Like a hive of hornets whose nest had been disturbed, they littered the sky and the land. A small battalion sent to calm the unruly masses on Shadow that had been covertly sending supplies to Independents. On the last shipment, they'd been raided and tagged by the Alliance, probably informed on by some gorram tattling purplebelly sympathizer. Shadow reluctantly harbored a few sympathizers, mainly the folks that were well off than most.

Folks who sold out honest folks trying to make a living made her sick thought the watching figure as her lips pursed into a sneer.

The steady gallop of horse sounded from behind her and the rider hailed her as he neared. "Aunt…Mrs. Reynolds, _'ma'am_ ." The young man bowed his head in a respectful gesture. "They been setting up in town, four squads. Word is that they'll be rounding up the folk up from some list they got. Mayor Skip gave them permission. Personal invite is what they is saying."

Turning to look at the boy, Margaret Reynolds narrowed her eyes as she digested his report. "Greedy meiyou muquin de xiao gou. Sell his mother too." she spat in disgust before returning her gaze to the town below. "Rider rounded up the men? Told them stay low?"

"Yessum, 'ma'am. He's waiting for your word."

"He'll get it when I give it then. Tell him to wait a bit more. I don't want no damn heroics ya hear, Shane?" Margaret said to the young man firmly, the fierceness melting away. "We have enough of that lese from this damn war." Then adding as an afterthought, "Gorram fool like his father."

Shane squinted at his aunt, figuring he heard wrong. "Say what?"

Margaret raked him with a scolding glare. "I ain't say word, boy. Quite foolin' about and give Rider the message."

"But you just said…" Shane began in protest.

"What is it now? Am I speaking stupid? I know you ain't slow either. I said go give Rider the word."

Shane muttered a curse under his breath as he picked up the reins again. "Yessum, Auntie." The sun had begun to set which shadowed his irritated features from her. Blond and blue-eyed, he'd taken his looks from his father. The stubborn set of his mouth he took from his mother, who shared it with her older sister, Margaret Reynolds.

Margaret managed to crack a smile at his impetuous nerve. Too much like his cousin. "What was that?"

"I said yessum, ma'am'," Shane answered warily, not liking the glint in her eye. Woman had ears like a gorram alley cat. His Ma always warned him against her sister. There had been a reason why nobody stole from Margaret Reynolds. Despite the delicate look over the older woman, she could put the fear of God in anyone given the proper motivation. There was no denying that Margaret Reynolds was pure steel—unbending and unbreakable

"That's what I thought." Margaret said as he left. She gave one last glance to the town below and shook her head. "Gorram fool."

* * *

2505, Shadow

Malcolm Reynolds trudged home at a snail's pace, uneager for the expected hellfire and brimstone that would greet him. Nineteen and already an idealist, he had done what his mother had expressly forbidden. Not that he was of age to be forbidden anything, but Margaret Reynolds was a force to be reckoned with.

Half of town already knew that he enlisted with the Independents, would be shipping off to training by the end of the week. And no doubt that his momma already knew as well.

Mal sighed and squared his shoulders as he arrived at the ranch. The work hands avoided looking at him as he passed through. Jenkins, the overseer, gave him a pitying glance of support. The old man tipped his head in sympathy before returning to giving orders to the workers.

Further up the path, his younger cousin, Shane Moore, smirked at his misfortune. Fifteen and he already thought himself very clever. He twirled a platinum dollar between his fingers, nimble hands spinning the coin quickly. "You done it this time, Reynolds. Yep, you did. If I was you…"

Mal slapped the teen upside the head as he mounted the steps. "Thankfully you ain't. So _bi zui_."

"Exactly my point," Shane replied, taking it in good stride. He lazily flipped the coin up in the air only to have it plucked out of mid air by Mal. "Hey!"

"And now I'm making mine," Mal said as he tucked the coin in his pocket. His chuckle was stopped cold when he saw a familiar figure at the doorway.

Shane tried tugging the coin out of his pocket, but his search paused as he looked to see had caught his cousin's attention. Shane grimaced and abandoned the coin for now. Backing away he said, ""It's your funeral, Reynolds."

"You lucky it ain't yours, boy. You're supposed to be helping Jenkins," Margaret remarked causally, moving away from the doorway. Chilly blue eyes zeroed in on her current target, "Malcolm."

Mal resisted glancing down like a whipped dog at all costs. He was man; it was time to start taking responsibility for his actions.

Shane flicked his glance between them, nodding nervously. "I was just getting to that, Auntie…err, 'ma'am."

Margaret just gave him a look. Shane took that moment to scamper away. The young man took off faster than a hare being pursued by poachers, leaving the two individuals on the porch alone with the lines being drawn silently in the sand. Mal took a tentative step forward, "Momma."

Margaret was silent for a moment, and then walked forward. For a second Mal thought maybe he had been overacting. Maybe his mother would understand this time. The slap that stung his cheek nearly made him stumble backwards. "Don't you momma me, boy."

The ranch stood silent, the slap echoing like a bullet shot ringing through the air. The workers couldn't help but be drawn into the stand off between mother and son. Jenkins, noticing the pause in the work and the audience, quickly shouted orders and berated the men for slacking off. The men grumbled under their breath and movement resumed.

Mal felt the humiliation keenly and his temper rose to match his mother's. "I ain't a boy anymore, 'ma'am," he said with controlled anger.

"Is that what they told you?" Margaret mocked as she tapped his chin. "You think strapping on a gun and playing solider makes you one? Think killing men will make you a man? Sons, fathers, daughters…you ever think of that, boy?"

Mal bit his cheek, impotent in his anger to make mama understand. Respect had to be given after all. Hell, no one could ever make her understand anything she didn't want to. It was a useless cause, Mal knew better than anyone.

"You're just like _him,_ " she said spat out before turning away and entering the house.

Mal stood outside for a few seconds, letting the anger simmer. He clenched his fists and followed her inside. "You got some damn nerve, comparing me to him. That..piece of…that goddam hundan."

Margaret faced him, "If I have a mind to compare, it's because I see it that way. You watch your tongue with me, Malcolm Reynolds."

"Well, I ain't some whore mongering, wife beating…" Mal began before another sharp slap cut him off. Tasting copper on his lip, he wiped it away. "You think I didn't see the way he treated you? Think I didn't see the bruises?"

"Quiet, that's enough!" Margaret snapped, complexion paling at the words. "You owe me respect."

"I've given it to you, always. And that damn obedience too. Stayed here, didn't I?" Mal motioned around him, "Helping after he left. I gave up—I've given up a lot for you, and the ranch. Not anymore. I ship out to training next week. I want your blessing, but I don't need it," Mal stated bravely.

"Go chase your useless cause then, because that's what it is," Margaret said, composing her expression. "But don't expect me to speak to you again."

"Momma…" Mal tried to approach her, but she turned her back on him. Ignoring her son, she began to wash the dishes left over from lunch. He slammed a fist on the table, "Gorramit, momma, don't be like this." Silence was his answer.

Mal nodded, accepting her threat. "Fine. Be that way, then. But…the central planets want to unite the planets together, take what isn't theirs, that's what they're really after. Taking people's basic right to freedom, that's what it comes to in the end. I remember a woman teaching me I had the right to protect what was my own. You remember that when you refer to my useless cause again, 'ma'am."

He gave her one last look before leaving her.

Margaret didn't move until she heard the door close. She slammed the plate in the sink; the dish shattered causing the ceramic to cut her hand. She cursed and flung the pieces away. Sliding down to the floor, she cried, sobbing deeply.

A figure watched from the stairway, hunched down to avoid being seen. Shane felt guilty about spying, wasn't like he was expecting his fierce aunt to break down crying. He tiptoed away, leaving her to her grief.

* * *

Days passed, and the day arrived finally for his transfer to the camp. Margaret watched her son from kitchen window as he bid his farewells to the workers, part of his family in their own way. She had kept her promise to him and refused to say a single word to him throughout the remaining week. It would've raked at her pride to apologize. And the same went for Malcolm. Both shared the hardheaded stubbornness that made them clash, not that either of them would notice that detail or admit it.

Mostly, they had avoided each other, only sharing supper after a hard day's work. Thus, it fell to her sister Elise, Shane and Jenkins to make conversation during the evening. Mal had joined sparsely, more interested in finishing his dinner and returning to his room.

She had been wrong in comparing her boy to that no good piece of waste of humanity that was her husband. It shamed her that she had done so out of spite. She knew it had hurt him, but then again, she knew it would. Margaret fingered the silver cross at her neck, a gift from her Pa when she turned six. Told her the angels made it especially for her.

She sighed as she traced the shape of the cross. Margaret knew she was hard woman to deal with and strict. Ever since she had found the nerve to send that son of bitch packing, she had vowed that her son would be a good man, a better man than the bastard that had tormented and humiliated her throughout their marriage. Although she was sometimes harsh with Mal, she meant well for him. She had meant so much more for her dear boy than to be a dead man walking. God damn war.

She didn't want to lose her son, was that so wrong? She wanted him to have a fruitful life, maybe a family. Margaret wanted him to have hope. Unlike her, she had lost any chance of it a long time ago. War would kill that in him. It would carve out a black hole in his very being and then slowly devour him.

That was something she could not explain to her son. It couldn't be taught, it had to be experienced.

Margaret took cross off, and held it in her hand. She lightly ran her finger on it and brought it to her lips. "God be with thee." She couldn't tell him, but she could give him whatever hope she had left. With that thought in mind, she slipped the cross into his belongings. "You're a better person than both of us could ever be, boy."

And then she left to pray for her son to come back safe.

* * *

2511

If the Alliance had come to take, there was nothing left for them to do so. A sure pity, that, Margaret thought bitterly. Whatever cattle were left were used to make ends meet by placing food on the table. The rest had been given to help the supply the Independent forces. Then there were the ones that took sick and died off. Her ranch wasn't the only one that had taken blows from the war. Smithy and Jones's claims were both bigger than her own, but neither of them managed to make a profit during the war either. The Alliance had been controlling supplies to planets suspicious of helping the rebels, which only made it harder for those living off the land to make ends meet.

She waited for the knock on her door and smiled when it did. Her back and joints ached from arthritis as she rose from her chair. Letting the twinges of pain fade away at the task at hand, Margaret opened the door to none other than Mayor Skip. A troop of four purplebellies accompanied him.

"What diyu do you want, you damn vermin?" Margaret asked, her question directed to the weasel of a man in front of her.

"Now, Margaret, I'd watch my tone…"

"You best be watching your own, Skip. Don't waste my time."

Mayor Skip aka Lou "Skip" Skeeter, puffed up his chest in indignation and self-importance. He flicked away an imaginary piece of lint from suit as he spoke, "The boys here would like to have a word with you. Rumor has it that you know where Rider and the boys have taken to hiding.

"Really, you know what I think?" Margaret conversed well naturally. "That you were badly misinformed."

"Alliance don't deal kindly with rebels, Mar…Mrs. Reynolds. Don't be making things difficult for yourself," Skeeter stated as he tried to peer through the doorway. "You wouldn't be disinclined to let the boys search around, now would you?"

Margaret raked a seething glance at the troops. "I don't incline nothing for you," she replied before moving reluctantly and nodded her assent. "Feel free to waste your time, you won't find anything here."

Skip smirked as he fiddled with his suit some more. Margaret never could believe a man could be filled with so much self-importance. Downright sad, really. She walked back inside, knowing the man would invite himself in. Hundan. Let him gloat for all she cared.

"So how's that son of yours, Mrs. Reynolds. I forget, Malcolm is, it? What colors is he fighting under again?" Skeeter commented offhand. As he looked around the house in obvious distaste. Margaret could see plain as day that he was comparing the ranch house to his own three story mansion. The Alliance was very generous in rewarding those loyal to the true cause.

"You know very well, you son of a bitch" Margaret said in disgust. There was nothing she disliked more than pretensions from a coward. She crossed her arms and stared him down. Skip flinched and began playing with his cuff links to avoid her gaze. The shiny metal shone with a tiny gemstone in the center. Probably could've fed a family for a month for what it had cost him, she observed. Ire burned in her gut with the knowledge, too bad she didn't have her shotgun with her. Damn shame.

The surveying soldiers came back empty handed just as she expected. "All clear. There's nothing."

Margaret stated the obvious. "Course there's nothing. I told you, didn't I? Gorram fools."

"If you're hiding the rebels, Mrs. Reynolds, best to come clear, ya hear?" Skip quipped. "Traitors are frowned upon, aren't they boys? Why don't you show Mrs. Reynolds how we deal with traitors?"

One the soldiers shifted uncomfortably, "Sir…" however; he was interrupted by his superior officer.

Lieutenant Gibson, who had led the team through the search, stepped forward. "Mrs. Reynolds, if you're hiding and abetting traitors, we're under orders to take possession of your land and property."

"You ain't got no proof, boy." Margaret sneered. For the man was nothing less than boy, she had years on this so-called solider. A few years older than her own boy and for some young upstart to think he could order her around, take her land…she'd be dead first.

"You're right, Mrs. Reynolds. We don't," Skip said. "And if nobody here can prove it, there ain't nobody to disapprove it neither."

She bit the inside of her cheek to check her temper. Margaret leveled her gaze on Gibson with a stony expression. "Do whatever compels you, boy. This is a war, after all. You're free to arrest an old woman, if those are your orders."

Gibson nodded. "You're to remain confined to the house for further interrogation once our camp is set up. You're land as of now is herby property of The Allied Planets."

She watched the soldiers file out, Skip following with his smirk firmly in place. Margaret refused to move until they were gone. She studied her home and how they had ransacked it during the search. They had violated it. Furniture had been tossed around, china broken and chipped. A framed picture had been knocked to the ground, the glass cracked in the middle. Her bones ached as she kneeled down to retrieve it. Mal, her boy, Malcolm. Margaret smiled has traced the image of her son with care. He'd been what? Ten, just a boy, her boy. Shot his first fowl that day. He had been so proud. Now she wondered if he was alive. If his body and blood now littered one of the many battle fields since the war had began. Last she heard, he had been deployed to Serenity Valley. Some spoke of it as being the last stand. That being said, if there would be anyone left standing in the aftermath.

 _… I remember a woman teaching me I had the right to protect what was my own._

Her finger caught on a broken shard. The voice still rang in her mind after all this time, clear as crystal. Blood welled up. Her hand flinched as she flicked it away. Numbly, Margaret let the frame fall to the ground. Oh, she'll show them different. She'll show 'em good just what Margaret Reynolds could do.

It was her land and no gorram purplebelly was taking it from her.

* * *

It watched. Waiting. Not time yet. It was impatient, but knew it had to wait. It had to catch the prey by surprise. It had to be precise, controlled.

It crawled inside of him, screaming and scavenging like a hungry animal. The blackness, the nothingness, the abyss that devoured a little more each day. It did not remember who it had been or what it was. Just the cold nothing. Ghostly images filtered through its mind, images of a man called Samuel. Sometimes other faces filtered through, a little girl. Remembered the taste…taste of something. It did not know who these faceless people were. It did not care. The Ravenous sniffed the air as it caught the scent of campfire in the air nearby.

Drool pooled on his tongue and his stomach growled in hunger. The Ravenous processed the demand his body made and knew it for what it was. Instinct told him it had to find food, shelter. It wanted…it wanted...needed…hungry. Nothing else mattered. Survival. It had to survive.

It gnawed on the metal spike in his lip. Blood began to flow as the wound was broken once more. It relished the metallic coppery flavor as it burst into its mouth and onto its spilt tongue. The Ravenous growled in annoyance as something pulled on its leg. A red haze filled its vision as he saw one of its companions ripping into its leg with teeth filed into sharp points. It knocked the thing that used to be a man away. The fallen comrade whimpered and curled into a fetal position.

The others howled and laughed hysterically. Saliva dribbled from their mouths as they caught the scent of fresh prey in their midst. Weak. It was weak. They were all hungry. Thirsty. This one could not control itself. Would drag them down. It was weak, filthy…no use to them.

The leader growled a warning to stay away from it. It needed as many able bodies to carry out its plan.

Already bored with the insubordinate, The Ravenous turned away and began to plan its attack on the town below. It had seen the earlier arrival of reinforcements. It accessed the memories again. Defined the arrivals as soldiers, killers, worthy opponents. It let the anticipation fill its belly to dull the hunger.

Suddenly, the fallen comrade leaped at him and wrapped a hand around the Ravenous's throat. It snarled in rage and clawed the hand away, ripping a piece of ear along with it. The thing howled in pain, and prepared for another attack, screaming. It didn't make it. The Ravenous's hand shot out and twisted its attacker's neck hard to the left until the crunch of bone breaking vibrated through its hands. The others cheered and eerie laughter permeated the surroundings. They shuddered as lust rippled through them. Hungry. So damn hungry.

He made a sign with its hands, giving his consent for them to feed. They quickly fought amongst each other ripping flesh with their teeth while some used knives to make it quicker. Two fought over a slice of the tongue. Another crudely carved skin from the corpse's arm. Others turned on each other as they fought to get to the body.

The Ravenous shrugged and popped the piece of ear into his mouth. It nearly rolled its eyes in pleasure as it chewed savoring the taste of raw flesh flooding its senses. It remembered now - the little girl had been much sweeter. Long ago, it had been its daughter.

* * *

Rider Burton chewed on a dried piece of hickory while drumming his fingers on the boulder. The men were restless as they waited for the look out to come back. The boy had left an hour ago; Shane Garrett probably had taken to sight seeing or found a cozy place to nap. Boy was a wonder - calm as Heckler's stream. Nothing fazed him, not even the war.

The war hadn't touched Shadow until now. Before the Alliance troops came, the only sign of the war had been the postings in town about fallen soldiers. The causalities keep piling up and families mourned. Rider had lost a brother, an uncle, and two cousins. It was a gorram waste is what it was. Still, he couldn't help but feel guilty for not joining up and serving with them. Thinking of his brother's words still stung till this day. "Nothing but a coward, a no good _liezhi_ coward," he'd said. That had burned; a man had his pride after all.

But what Rider's brother hadn't understood was that there had to be something to come back to. Wouldn't mean a damn thing if they won only to return to find Shadow razed to the ground. Sure, they could start over, but the damage would be done. They still would've lost in the end. The way things were looking now though, chances were they weren't gonna win either way.

"…word is he was commanding 4,000 troops."

"What was that?" Rider asked as he turned away from his musings. His voice boomed, deep, a good with the rugged edges of his face. He wasn't an ugly man by any means, nor was he the handsomest. Amongst the men there, he cut an imposing figure just like his daddy had. He was dead too. Had been sheriff of the town right before Skip had taken office just before the war broke. Something Rider had always found 'interesting'. His pa had always been one with the individuals that had stood against Skip taking office. The campaign for mayor had been corrupted from the start, many people got caught in cross-fire during one of the riots. His father was one of them. And at the end of the it, Skip was the one holding the strings like a master puppeteer. With friendly Allied sympathizers at his side. No matter, he was a patient man, retribution would come later.

"Oh, we was talkin' about Margaret Reynolds's boy. Morrison heard from a source…Malcolm Reynolds was commanding 4,000 troops in Serenity Valley."

The men murmured their admiration, "That Reynolds was always somethin', weren't he?"

Rider frowned, irritated. "Yeah, sumthin', 4,000 you say? What does that tell you how it's going for us? There ain't any higher superior officers to be leading them, and you want to know why? 'Cause they're dead, that's why. Keep in mind, he _was_ commanding that many…we haven't heard any updates since then."

"Geez, Rider, you ain't got to be so…"

"Oh, hell, bi zui, Harry, you damn chunren." Rider barked. "This ain't time to be glorifying Reynolds. He _ain't_ some damn hero."

Harry lifted his chin, tipping his hat up. "Well, some say different. Just cause you didn't…"

Rider closed the space between them quickly. Towering over Harry by a couple of feet, he grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and picked him up until their noses were almost touching. "You should think long and hard about finishing that sentence, Harry. Think _real_ good. I don't you see you on the field with Reynolds or any others. Watch where you point that finger, old man."

Harry swallowed nervously. The men shifted uneasily. Everyone was tense since The Allied Forces arrived on Shadow. Word had it they been ratted out for their part on delivering supplies to the rebel forces. Didn't help that the last shipment had been intercepted. Traitors were being dealt with more harshly now - some spoke of killings. That wasn't how it was supposed to go. However this was war, rules were bent to suit the occupiers.

"Calm down, Rider. I was just making…talk. No need to get tetchy." Harry conceded. "We is all…worried, the men need morale."

Rider shoved him lightly, releasing his grip. "Don't need no chun false hopes. The fall will be harder if you believe everything you hear." He said this honestly, not because he felt Malcolm Reynolds was an idiot chasing war glory. Growing up, the boy always had to show someone up, prove them wrong. He and Rider had shared a friendly rivalry as children. Seeing who could shoot better, ride better, or charm a girl into loosening her skirt quicker. Mal had always done it just a little too well and that just gnawed at Rider. Even knowing how stupid and petty it was.

In the end, Rider wanted to be the one of the battlefield. It weren't easy having half the people he growed up with thinking he was a coward.

A shrill unearthly howl pierced the air, freezing everyone in place. Rider felt himself go cold as his breath came in a little too quickly and his heart clutched as it pounded faster. Sweat beaded on his brow and the back of his neck. The sound came again, the cry echoing in the air.

"Jesus, Buddha! What the hell was that?" Harry asked in a whisper. "That weren't natural, Rider."

Rider flexed his hand over his firearm. "I…probably coyotes."

"Rider…coyotes been, they don't howl like that. You hardly can find a coyote here anyway, they been dying down, haven't they? It sounded like it was…human."

"Shut the gorram up, Harry." He could see a figure walking in the distance. It looked like a man, but he couldn't tell for sure. The sun was setting, giving the horizon a hellish red glow. His skin prickled, hair rising at the back of his arms. Damn Shane for taking so long! They could've left hours ago by now….avoided whatever the hell this thing was. Rider scolded himself, not a thing. A man, it was just a man.

By now, the men had caught sight of the lone man walking towards them. They readied their firearms and took aim at the approaching figure. The man's clothes were ragged, torn and crudely sewn together. Something glinted on the man's face, though Rider couldn't make it out. Even curiouser, he was unarmed which set off more alarms in his mind. No man was unarmed these days, it was suicide to go without a weapon.

Then the scratching began, light quick movement shuffling around them. Newman, a young boy of sixteen pulled the trigger nervously at the imaginary noise. The shot rang through the empty air like a firecracker going off during colonial day. Rider glared at the boy.

The figure stopped then. He lifted his hands in the air, turning his face upwards to the darkening sky. Whatever little light was left illuminated the man's face briefly. And Rider shuddered when he saw the face clearly. His mind trying to make sense of what he was seeing as he told himself that those were just tales, fables to get children to behave and listen to their mothers. He refused to call them by their name; he would not let fear cloud his judgment.

Then the screaming began, Newman was knocked on the ground by another man. Startled by the attack, the men shifted their attention to their friend on the ground. The man stabbed at Newman with a wicked curved knife, slashing at the poor kid's face. Newman's screams weakened as blood loss set in, slowly his flailing limbs slackened. Harry fired a shot at the attacker and caught it in the shoulder. The thing roared in rage, and revealed what Rider had suspected all along but refused to admit.

Reavers.

The man, if it could be called a man, had desecrated his flesh with sharp metal objects. Rider stared into those wild and belligerent eyes briefly, witnessed the cold calculation on the being's face and saw nothing remaining of the man behind it. Just a dark abyss, so he did the best thing he could - he shot it point blank in the face. The bullet hit its mark right between the man's eyes.

The body fell on top of the now dead Newman. The dull thud was lost in the ringing shots of battle as hell descended upon them.

Rider had been wrong all along. Being a coward was overrated.

* * *

Oh, shit, oh Jesus, shit, fuck, Oh, shit, cao! That was all the coherent thought Shane Garrett could manage at the moment. He watched the horror unfold from a short distance away. He had been delayed by a pretty face, Miss Sandy O'Connell,after doing the surveillance in town, had almost gotten nabbed for his trouble. Hell if she wasn't the prettiest gal and she liked him to boot. Too bad her pa was a gorram purplebelly ass kisser. Mr. Connell and the townspeople were placed on alert for Rider and anybody associated with him. It had forced him to take the long trail to the hideaway, but the rocky terrain was not ideal for the horse, Buttercup. The mare was old, the best that was left of the once prosperous Reynolds Ranch.

Shane had been reduced to making the trail by foot. The sun was bright and the unforgiving heat had battered down upon him. He had known Rider would have his panties in a twist by the time he arrived. Now, Shane wished he hadn't. Christ. This wasn't happening! Reavers were just old wives' tales…they weren't real. Couldn't be. The Allied Forces had always denied their existence even before the war started. Ghost stories…Mal used to scare him with them as children.

He clutched at the loose soil where he had lain down in efforts to hide himself. The dirt felt cool under his fingertips, a false comfort. He wished Mal was here. Mal would know what to do. His cousin always knew what to do. Mal was a fearless son of bitch.

Dry shrubbery and the evening sky helped camouflage him from the predators. Part of his brain told Shane had to run and warn the others in town; however, he couldn't tear himself away. He watched as his friends and comrades were cut down brutally, coldly, and efficiently. And the beings doing it did it happily. Vaguely he wondered if Rider was still alive - man was a good shot, almost as good as Mal.

The reavers didn't make any noise; their movements were quick and vicious. It had a sort of elegant grace similar to the traveling caravans where Chinese tumblers performed in their martial arts shows. Some of the reavers used cruder methods, brute force instead of skill. He choked back a shallow scream as he saw a reaver hold up something that resembled a hand.

Shane shook himself out of his stunned stupor. He would warn them. That's what Mal would do. Hell, he'll warn the damn purplebellies too, he didn't care—they couldn't ignore this. Maybe they could even stop this.

Silently, crawling backwards and careful not make too much movement, he escaped. Maybe physically, but the images were burned into his mind. He doubted he would forget anytime soon.

* * *

Ravenous snapped his head in the direction of the fleeing prey. The movement was so slight that the others didn't catch it. Nonetheless, It knew. And the Ravenous smiled and proceeded to lick the cooling blood on its fingers.

The prey had been caught unaware. It had been so simple, that even Ravenous had been disappointed at the ease of it. One of the prey, the tall one who had killed his comrade, had managed to escape. The man was injured though; the others would find his trail soon. But first…there was work to do. The hunt had to continue.

Ravenous looked up at the inky night sky where the stars glittered, a priceless treasure within its grasp. To the others it was just that, air and space. However to It, space meant so much more. A larger hunting ground, more prey, more pillaging. They had been grounded on land too long ever since their ship's engine had combusted two weeks ago and they had been forced to dock here. The land's resources had been used up and would soon be of no use to them. They had taken a town several kilometers away, but it wasn't a commercial center. The small settlement possessed no ships, just two horses, one hardware store, and jailhouse. The food hadn't been filling at all. Too stringy.

Arousal licked at his belly—yes, the hunt would continue. Then they would take to the sky again.

* * *

 _The blow knocked her to the ground. Margaret let the pain go through her body, it would pass. It always passed. Soon he would tire and leave to find his whore. Oh, he thought she didn't know – but a woman always did. A woman knew what signs to look for. She cursed him inwardly, cursed herself for being such a weak and simpering idiot all this time. That would change now. Margaret reached for the pistol she had hidden under the cabinet. Her hand touched the butt of it and her elegant fingers curled around the metal._

 _"I told you to not make that deal with Morrison. Probably spread your legs for him too, didn't you? You gorram whore!"_

 _Margaret smiled bitterly as she shuffled weakly to her knees. Her husband raised his hand once more to slap her, but he stilled as she aimed the .45 at his head. "Oh, honey, I think you got it backwards, I think you need to visit your own damn whore. Better yet, you should move in with that pofu. 'Cause I'm done with you."_

 _"You…are you insane? How dare you accuse me…"_

 _"Bi zui!_   
_You chusheng xai-jiao de xiang huo!" Margaret yelled, her aim never wavering. "Get the hell out of my house! You've leeched on long enough. My daddy was right, damn shame I didn't let him shoot you off the property back then! I would've saved myself the trouble of it now."_

 _"Fine…fine, but I'll be taking the boy. I won't have my son raised by a whore."_

 _"Like hell, that boy is mine. He's my son! You think you'll take him from me? I will hunt you down, Jonathan. And I'll kill you for the trouble." Margaret said evenly. "I won't have my son raised by animal such as you. He's better than that. Lord is he better than that. Sheriff Burton and half the men in town have been itching to get an excuse to shot your miserable hide down." She paused to take a breath before she spoke again with ice in her voice. "Just **try** it, hundan. Try to take my son away from me."_

 _"_ Mrs. Reynolds, stand down!" Lieutenant Gibson ordered.

Ignoring the foolish command, she struck the match; sparks flew hot against her fingers. The land was fertile still if not productive, but in time, it would flourish again. Cattle could be imported at a cost and the Allied Forces would be reaping from it. Probably hand it over to that disgusting slug Skip or some other pampered individual. The land her daddy toiled in and his daddy before him, the one she had fought tooth and nail for it to thrive, all for naught.

Well, it wouldn't belong to none then. Not her. Not her son, might not even be alive right now. And sure as hell not the damn Allied Forces. She'll burn it, scar it to make it harder to revive the land. Margaret wouldn't make it easy for them. Fools, hadn't thought that a mere woman could outsmart them.

She dropped the match and watched the flames lick the trail of engine fuel across the main expanse of land and her home. In a few minutes, the fields and stalls were blazing with flames. She moved quickly, her joints protesting as she pushed herself forward. A gunshot ricocheted close to her feet as she got to a safe distance from the area. Margaret stopped and turned. Whipping her pistol up without wasting time, she returned fire at the small troop of soldiers posted to make sure she stayed in her prison. Her home. Her land. They shot back without consideration for the fact that she was an old woman. No, those things became a blurry line during war. She didn't blame them, would've done the same thing.

A bullet bit into her shoulder, another into her thigh. She cried out as she found herself meeting the earth. She braced her hands to soften the blow, but the impact was still jarring. Margaret let the blow carry her over, just like old times. Let the pain run its course. It would pass. It always passed. She idly wondered what had become of her husband as she met the blackness, welcomed it and thought no more.

* * *

Shane kept moving, concentrated on the movement of his legs and the burning of his lungs. His boots pounded the ground as he ran and struggled to ignor the thoughts of the reavers following him. A branch cut across his cheek and he nearly tripped on some rubble on the ground. Panic gripped him at the idea of falling because he knew he might never get up. Every minute counted. He tried not to think that he was making such a racket that he was giving his position away to Them or anybody else.

He tried not to think at all. The screams wouldn't let him, the smell of blood and death clogged his nose and reached for the back of his throat.

The screams echoed in his mind and made Shane want nothing more than to curl up in a ball and cry. He was no good at this, he was no hero. Sweet Jesus, he wished Mal was here. Wished anybody was here but himself. Then Shane wouldn't be dealing with this. He'd rather face death in battle than face what he saw moment ago. Being man at this moment wasn't all that great.

His heart lifted as he reached the outskirts of town by late evening. Help was near. They had to help. Shane didn't look around too closely at his surroundings, didn't want to see what hid in the recess of the shadows. Didn't want to see himself going slightly insane because the gorram reavers were on Shadow. Reavers weren't human.

Men, they had been men, but they sure as hell didn't look like it to Shane.

A military convoy was a few meters away. He never dreamed that he'd be happy to see a gorram purplebelly. As they neared he couldn't stop the words from tumbling out of him. "Reavers, reavers, they're here on Shadow. They…attacked..help, you got to help."

"Well, ain't it Shane Garrett, a gorram traitor!" Skip said as he stepped out of the convoy. "Where's Rider and his band, hmm, boy?" Two Allied soldiers framed his sides, rifles ready.

Shane shook his head, the desperation pouring out in his words. "What? Don't you understand? Reavers! The goddamn dongwu reavers are here. On Shadow! They killed, they killed them all! I saw them…I saw them!"

Skip laughed while the soldiers smirked. "You hear that? If I had a whole silver platinum for every Reaver story I heard, I'd be rich. Not that I'm not," he laughed at his own pun. "You're one sorry excuse, just like that cousin of yours. But don't you worry, you'll learn how we deal with a traitor soon enough."

"Boys, do the Allied Forces proud, ya hear? He'll spit out the location of his friends soon enough."

The soldiers moved forward and forcefully bounded his hands. Shane didn't fight, disbelief writing across his face. Couldn't believe they wouldn't listen to him. The reavers, he saw them. Saw them, they showed no mercy. "But…you don't understand, I saw Them. I saw them kill. I heard…they screamed, the screams…blood, I smelled the blood."

The reality of feeling his hands bound sent him into a panic. Shane needed his hands free - the reavers were coming! He couldn't have his hands tied when they came. Struggling, he sent a swift kick at Skip's kneecap. The mayor howled in pain and punched him. One solider lifted his rifle and slammed it into the back of Shane's head. Shane slumped forward and in a brief moment of clarity before passing out, remembered a detail from the stories, the most obvious of them all.

In the stories, Reavers never left survivors.

* * *

They attacked at midnight. Silent and unseen, they took houses one by one. They cut out the tongues of the victims so that no cries for help or screams could be heard. They killed and ate their fill. Raped the women while enjoying the pure adrenaline of terror on their faces. The salty trail of tears added to the seasoning. Ravenous and his flock hunted, it had been a long time since the hunt had been this fruitful.

Arriving at the townhouse, it was there where they set decided to set the fire. Soldiers were killed where they slept, even those who awakened to the horror weren't given a chance to call out nor reach for their weapons. Throats were slit, necks broken, soon Ravenous and others didn't even bother eating - their stomachs were already full. Some of them stripped pieces of flesh for souvenirs.

While the others readied the tank taken from an ambushed convoy, Ravenous broke into the townhouse. The fact that the Mayor, a man of power, lived there did not matter to It. It did not care for wealth. It did not care for petty and material things. So when Lou 'Skip' Skeeter begged for his life with bribes of money, Ravenous took its time. No one was present to hear the Mayor scream as It stripped the skin away very slowly, and then when the man's throat was raw from screaming, then It killed him with a swift twist of the neck broken like so much dry wood.

An explosion suddenly rocked the three story house. Ravenous grinned, skin pulling unnaturally by the piercings of metal obstructing its facial muscles. Walking toward the window, it watched as the remaining unit of soldiers was annihilated by the others. Some of the soldiers died by their own hand, others by the flames that devoured half of the town. The fire gave the scene a hellish glow, something straight out…out of what? Its memory faltered once more, no matter. Ravenous had always enjoyed a touch of the melodramatic.

They fought over the honors like a pack of wild dogs. Shane was too terrified to move, he thought he stopped breathing when heard the scratching at the door. He had waited for them to come. He knew they would come, tried to warn them and yet they didn't listen to him. Shane had screamed himself hoarse and still no one listened. All he had gotten for his trouble was a broken knee cap and a few teeth knocked out. The soldiers had tired quickly of hitting him when he went silent and limp, had thought his mind was gone.

Shane was starting to believe that it was. But then the scratching started, tapping on the windows. Someone ran around pounding on them, two deputies left to check the disturbances…then the screams started. It was always the screams. There was something about a man's scream as he's being carved up like a Christmas ham. The agony pulls at the heartstrings, makes you wonder when he is going to die. The noise, the incessant screeching, irritated his ears so much that he imagined wrapping his hand around the throat and forcing it to stop. Make it stop. Shane rocked back and forth covering his ears, tried to look away…couldn't. He prayed but the words didn't make it better. "…As we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Deliver us from ev…" Shane knew he would die tonight, although he knew he already died a different death earlier.

He wondered why Deputy Mallory, the pretty red head, refused to die already. She needed to die, he didn't want hear her anymore. Sick of her sniveling. Of the whimpers and sobs as they tore her open and brutalized her body. The reavers cackled in guttural tones as they watched him break from the cell's bars. Shane wasn't aware of anything anymore.

There was no mercy, no quarter given. He dug his hand into a sharp metal spring of his bunk and studied the way how easily his skin gave way, drawing the blood out. And so he watched and wondered when he would die a second time that night.

* * *

Margaret Reynolds was dying on the burned ground of her home, the land she had loved so much. The fire licked at her feet, but she had weakly brushed it out, nonetheless the damage had been done already. The loss of blood helped speed things along. Her breath came slower as her lungs fighting to take in air. There had been some commotion; the soldiers had started screaming, but she was too tired to care.

She thought of her son and hoped he was alive. She was proud of her boy, he'd been such a sweet child. Always so thoughtful and stubborn, she hadn't deserved him. He was a good man in the end; somehow, she knew he would be alright. Knew he was alive and would survive this war and what followed after. Lord forgive her sins and she hoped her son forgave her.

"I'm sorry, Malcolm. You did good, you did good." Margaret gasped and clutched at her neck where her silver cross use to hang. Her eyes fluttered down and she smiled. Her hand limply slid down to the land.

* * *

September, 2511—Post Unification

"You sure you don't want me to go with you, sir?" Zoe asked. The concern in her voice was subtle. She knew the Captain wouldn't take to it outright. "We don't know…you don't know what's out there. You might need backup."

"I'll be fine." Mal said, closing any room for debate. He gave her a grin that didn't reach his eyes, "Come on, Zoe, if I didn't know any better, I'd think you're doubtful in my splendid survival skills."

"Wouldn't dream of it, sir."

"Well, then, you just wait here with Monty. Won't take long."

"About that, sir, you know…there's nothing left." Zoe said bluntly. She had been with him in the POW camp when he received the news of Shadow. Seen how the blood had drained from his face when the Allied officer cruelly tossed the information to him after Mal had hounded him to death. He had lunged at and nearly strangled the man for it. Mal had been placed in solitary for month for that little number.

Not even the Alliance could explain what happened on Shadow, they didn't want to believe it. Zoe didn't want to and she wasn't native to the planet. No sane person could believe it. However, Zoe knew better. War brought out the worst in a person, man or woman. God knows what could bring it out without one. Tales of reavers have been going on long before the war started. They'd gotten worse soon after it started. There was no denying it now, reavers existed.

Mal waited beat before speaking again. "I know…Zoe, I have to do this."

"I'll wait, sir. Monty said he could beat me at cards. I think I'll prove him wrong." Zoe cracked a smile.

"If I ain't back by in two hours, you know what to do," Mal reminded her as started the mule up.

"Yes, sir." Zoe lied.

She watched him start off; Monty had docked near the outskirts of town. On the mule it would take fifteen minutes or so to reach it; on foot, thirty minutes. Zoe counted to a hundred clicks and waited until Mal was just a blurry figure in the distance before starting her trek.

Mal should know by now that she didn't always obey his orders.

* * *

It was a little more than a ghost town, only memories and charred remains were still present. The irony wasn't lost on Mal that only thing left intact was the church. Maybe reavers were fearful of being sacrilegious. Or God, if he existed, had some strange fucked up sense of humor.

No one left to hear the good word now, was there? Mal thought bitterly. He navigated the mule further into the town. The Alliance at least had had the decency to bury the bodies, the only good thing they'd done during the war. Gorram cowards. The graves were unmarked - the bodies had been too badly decomposed and defiled to be identified. Not like there had been anyone to do it or anyone to give a good gorram.

The makeshift cemetery was near the church. The soil there had been soft silt, malleable, the rest of the land too charred for easy digging. And the Alliance wasn't going to waste its time dragging bodies uphill. The stink would have been bad enough, Mal knew from experience.

He cut the engine in front of the church. The path to the graves was swallowed by weeds and overgrown shrubbery, Mal brushed them away, even as prickly burs hung onto his coat. Cursed as his hand grazed a dried rose bush, the thorn stuck in his index finger. He paused, pulled it out, gently nursed the sting.

He continued on, pushing the rusted gate open. The old graves had been moved with care years back when he was still a boy. The church was having some irrigation trouble with its pipes, so construction had to be done. The new cemetery was uphill, leaving room for the bodies now occupying the ground. They were buried in two large mass graves. Mal wondered morbidly how many bodies each held. He wondered in which one his momma now lay. And Jenkins, Shane and the other boys.

He wondered how long it took them to die, for he knew in which way they had died.

 _"How do the reavers kill a' body, Mal?"_   
_Shane asked._

 _"The reavers, they'll rape you like men rape women, eat your skin while your still screaming, then they'll sew your skin to their clothes…making you watch. Then you'll die." Twelve year old Mal said dramatically._

Mal found himself choking back a low keening moan. He rolled his hands into fists, letting the nails cut and bruise the palms. He couldn't cry, no matter how much the grief overwhelmed him. That he'd left in Serenity Valley and the solitary hole at POW camp. Feeling sick to his stomach, he forced the bile down. God, Tianna, he hoped it was quick. Hope the pain had been too much so that they didn't feel a gorram thing. The guilt set in soon after, he should've been there. No, he had to have his war, didn't he? Now he had nothing.

"I'm sorry, momma. I'm so gorram sorry."

He closed his eyes and said the last prayer he would ever say. Quick movement came at his left and a figure came roaring down at him like a demon out of Pastor George's Sunday brimstone sermons. Mal reached for his gun just as he was knocked to the ground. Air momentarily left him, he gasped as he struggled with his attacker, it gnashed its teeth near his throat. Its stench was foul, smelling of sourness and sickly sweetness like a decomposing corpse. Mal took hold of the man's neck and started to twist when he saw a pair of familiar blue eyes. Aunt Elise's eyes, momma's eyes.

"Shane?" Mal could barely bring himself to say the name. He saw what had become of his cousin; saw the desecration of his face and soul. It was a nothingness…just the look of a hunter facing its prey. Mal shuddered as he shoved it away by slamming his fist into the thing's face.

Shane responded by slashing at his stomach with the knife. The pain burned briefly, it was a shallow cut. Shane howled and lunged at Mal again, laughing. The former sergeant brought the palm of his hand upwards striking a blow that smashed his cousin's nose. But it was useless as if the pain bounced off him. Shane made quick slashes with the knife, but each time Mal managed to dodge them. Perspiration dampened his brow, logic told him what he had to do.

Mal struck a sharp blow to Shane's head with his elbow, then to his stomach. Shane fell forward. It was his chance, now, do it now, his mind told him. He aimed the gun, finger on the trigger and pulled. And nothing happened. Mal stared blankly at the pistol as it refused to work. Shane was pulling himself up. He pulled again.

Well, shit. Gorram Alliance for taking his piece! Damn that little _liumang_ from Gemini for selling him this piece of _liezhi_ _lese_! He had known something was off on the little bastard. Wait till he got his hands on him! Mal would shove it up his pegoo, if he lived through this.

Shane rammed into him, taking them both down. Mal struck him with the useless pistol as the blade neared his carotid artery. Desperate he dug his thumb into the eye socket, pressing until it gave way. Blood oozed, Shane howled in pain, clawing at his face, dropping the knife. With another blow to the ribs, Mal managed to shove him away. Just as he was picking himself up, two gunshots hit the man who was like a brother to him.

The shots had come from opposite directions, one hitting Shane between the eyes, the other one cutting clean through his heart from behind. As his body fell forward, Mal saw Zoe's stoic face. No, he was wrong, there was a slight horror in her eyes as she stared at the dead man. He'd never seen something so beautiful in his life. Relief. Before…Mal could've sworn he didn't give a damn if he lived anymore. He didn't. However he didn't want die that way. Not by…no.

"Zoe, I thought I told you to wait."

"You did, sir."

"You disobeyed my order," Mal nodded, dusting himself off. "Ok, just as long as we have that confirmed."

"You're welcome. And sir?" Zoe didn't drop her aim, pointing at something behind him.

Mal turned around to be faced with another familiar face. This one was sane, human. "Rider? _Tianna_ man. You're alive!"

Rider gave a rueful chuckle, three days growth of stubble marred his face. The lean tall man didn't say a word as he stumbled forward and hugged Mal, lifting him off the ground. Nearly cracking his ribs, Mal tried to breathe, patted his shoulder awkwardly. "Umm, yeah, good to see…you too."

"He seems happy to see you, sir. Friend?" Zoe asked bemused. Her hands shook lightly, the terror of the moment finally registering in her body.

"He ain't that happy, Zoe. And yes. Kind of." Mal replied, not liking the insinuation. He sniffed the unpleasant odor of a body unwashed for several weeks wafting up his nose and it wasn't him. "Umm, yeah, say, Rider, you can put me down now. Like now. Or the lady will be forced to shoot you. Cause you…really _, really_ stink."

When his feet touched ground once more, Mal tried to give the man a comforting smile. It was a grimace instead. "You alright?"

Rider nodded, his voice coming in a dry croak. He hadn't spoken to a human being in a long time. "Yes..I…I thought I would never get off this damn place. The Alliance, they didn't let me board, thought I was one of …tried to shoot me."

"Well, I wouldn't blame them. You're…not exactly winning any beauty pageants."

"He hunted me, Mal. I hunted him. I wanted to put him out of his misery. But…they ain't human, Mal. They move…they ain't human." Rider repeated dully shaking his head as studied his fallen comrade. "They…Jesus, Mal," he broke into a sob.

"Zoe, get him on the mule." Mal felt impotent, unable to find the words to help the man.

She moved forward, taking hold of his shoulders and gently pulling him away. Zoe shared one last glance with Mal, questioning.

"I'll be along, I got something to do first."

Rider turned suddenly, stumbling. "Mal, I'm sorry…"

"For what?"

"I called you chun idiot chasing after glory. I'm sorry…I was wrong."

"You wouldn't be too wrong, friend." Mal admitted ruefully, nodded. "I'm sorry, everybody's sorry now. No harm no foul, dong ma?"

He waited till they left before bending down and staring into the lifeless eyes of his cousin. They had clouded over, the blue filming into gray. Gently, he closed Shane's eyes. Pulling out the cross from inside his pocket, the silver had tarnished yellow, he contemplated the symbol. Mal didn't think he bother to clean it. Not anymore. His intention from the start was to bring it back to his momma for he knew she had placed in his belongings that day long ago. Softly and to no one particular, maybe more for himself, if he was honest—Mal spoke the familiar words from his childhood, "Amen."

 **Fin**


End file.
